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Oh what is there in yonder where the gullies in ponds ponder?
And insignificant fish tweedle lively like moray eels with lightning.
What havoc and fun they have down there.
No arms to speak of or or noses to spite.
Just fins and things and muddy tails.

Such a ravishing creature as silver-backed trout.
With gargantuan lips and bottleneck spout.
What name is given to the slippery one?
Why Arterius Megothan the shellfish pun.

What name is this, some Narnia crap?!
That fantasy drivel that leaks from mind caps.
And all the funny syllables and imagination groans.
The unique is sinister and the creative deepens.

Create worlds upon worlds and creatures and cretins.
A fellowship of slightly familiar bookmen.
Dabbles of horns and hooves for spice.
Draughts of silly names with lands to entice.

Mortivia, Alandria, Farnell Patch and St. Stevia.
Light and dark play themes with good, bad and fright.
The postmarks are there and the usual suspects.
Is nothing truly original?
Does all media come in sets?
The Fountain gets drawn on in similar streams.
The patterns of tale are woven to a mean.
We cherish the bold and the oddities.
But we comfort in sameness and structure repeats.

Conscious streams and four broke walls.
Rambles and screeds that confuse all.

What happened to mirth and fish playfuls?
Such stories seem to fill with morals.
Foundries of quandaries and fables galore.
A bookish message that reflects evermore.

Everita, Moria, Neverwinter Noir Filma.
Make a cosmos, paste it tight.
Culture, history and those damned Third Blights.
Fantasies and role plays and science fictionals.
A world within a world within my world away from world.
With blanket warm and hoodie secure.
Silence beckons and I’m free to explore.

We love these worlds and the denizens.
These characters our temporary friends.
Mon amie et gently sup a cup of Chablis.
Find a forest in the spines.
Master pages dense and fine.
Full of turns and closer looks.
A universe inside our books.

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